


Death Of A Love

by Pipamonium



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pipamonium/pseuds/Pipamonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman remembers the days events as she comes to terms with her lovers death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Of A Love

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from FP.com

She walked swiftly home, her long gait carrying her deftly through the silvery rain, her footfalls hardly rippling the puddles of rainwater as she glided along. Whether or not her feet made a sound as they fell upon the earth was a moot point, as no one was close enough to hear and the blood pounding through her dulled her to most of the outer world. The rain kissed her cheeks again and again. She had always loved the rain; she loved it now more than ever for its ability to match her mood. She hurt inside, like the clouds hurt above, heart to heavy to hold it all in anymore. Her eyes leaked tears almost as abundantly as the storm above. How she wished to be that rain cloud over head. How she wished to be able to release her pain in one large downpour than be able to simply dissolve into nothingness, to no longer even be, to no longer exist.

There were few people out braving the odds at this time, and the small amount that were out were moving quickly from place of refuge to place of refuge. They paid the lone woman, soaked to the bones and beyond, not the slightest heed. In all reality they did not even heed each other, not even when two or more collided. They simply righted themselves and moved on, cursing the misfortune that forced them out on a night like this, in weather like this.

Finally she reached her apartment complex; she paused long enough to take in the cold, gray stones and the lonely, barren verandas. She dropped her gaze to the concrete stairs in front of her and then took them, two at a time, to the top of the short flight. She fumbled with her keys until she found the right one. She inserted it into the keyhole and turned. Nothing happened. She tried again and again, nothing worked. Her sadness and grief swiftly turned to anger and she shook the doors furiously, making the doors rattle on their hinges and threaten to collapse atop her. When the racket she was making no longer helped she raised her fists to pound upon the glass, wishing with all of her being to break through and slice herself upon the shattering glass, anything to ease her emotional pain. Of course she had a snow balls chance in hell of completing her task, as the glass was bullet proof and only tempted her in the way it wobbled and twisted. After a few moments the anger in her wore itself out. She dropped her forehead to the glass in a gesture of lost hope.

She chuckled slightly to herself as she thought of how she looked from the other side of the glass. Her face twisted itself into a mockery of a smile with no small amount of grimace mixed in. Her long hair hung limp and matted on her head, plastered to her face, the back of her neck, and twisted about her upper arms. Her ruined dress hugged her every curve uncomfortably like a full sized cat suit. Her forehead was flattened against the cold, unloving glass. Home is where the heart is, her heart was no longer here. Not in this body, not in this building, not in this street, not in this town, no longer even in this world.

She laughed again before twisting her body away so her back faced the door. She pressed against it and slid effortlessly down the slick glass until her bum reached the cruel cement of the landing. She drew her knees up close up to her body and hugged them. She tipped her face back, her eyes staring up into the black heavens. The rain was colder now, it was also heavier, and fell faster. It stung her open eyes until, no matter how badly she wanted the pain to remind her of her place, she had to close them. Dropping her head onto her knees, she remembered what had happened that day, her lost love.

She had woken with a song in her heart and a smile adorning her lips; it was sunny, within her being and out side it. The birds were chirping merrily and the air smelled fresh and new, as if no living being had ever had a breath of its sweet aroma. She went to work happier then she had ever been before. She had a very good feeling about what would happen at closing of the day. He was not one who was good at hiding a particularly juicy secret, though she was good at hiding her knowledge of it ahead of time. As the day progressed, though, it became steadily cloudier and colder outside, foreboding. Yet, at the time, nothing could dampen her spirits, or so she thought. Then the call came. It rang once, and then twice, before she was able to pick it up. She answered it with a cheery, “Hello, The Post Office Recording Studios. Jasmine Monroe speaking, how may I direct your call?”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then an official sounding voice replied. “Hello Mrs. Monroe. This is Officer Sharpe speaking. Do you know a Joshua McHenry?” She gasped at the naming of her two-year-long lover by an officer of the law. “Y-yes,” she stammered. She swallowed hard, collecting herself, and then continued, “What has happened? Did he do something?” She racked her brain trying to find something about him that would get him in trouble with the law, but she came up with nothing. “We need you to come down to the station as soon as you can. We can arrange for transportation for you if necessary,” Sharpe said, seemingly oblivious to her question. “No, thank you officer. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she replied. “Thank you,” was all Sharpe replied with before hanging up. She left the other secretaries to cover for her as she exited through the door at the back of the building to go to the police station.

When she arrived, a tall slender, green-eyed officer greeted her. This was obviously Sharpe, she recognized him when he spoke in his distinguished tone, before he even finished introducing himself. He escorted her towards the back of the lobby, her heart leapt into her throat as he led through the double doors, and into the morgue. Even now, the smell of over used cleaner lingers and the sight of blindingly white walls remain imprinted in the back of her eyes. She glanced around at the odd tools and tables used for autopsies, and the rows of closed, labeled cupboards with human bodies waiting inside, decomposing and naked, except for a thin layer of white linen. She was surprised at the number labeled with the name ‘John Doe’ or the likes. Sharpe paused at one such row and glanced at some names before laying a spidery hand on a handle marked with the name ‘John Doe 42’. He pulled it open deftly; the wheels were well greased to prevent any noisy friction.

As the sheet-covered body was revealed, Mrs. Monroe’s eyes grew and she began to back away, she had recognized that body before any flesh had been showed. Had she not often walked into his bedroom on a plethora of mornings to wake him up for the day? Surely she could recognize his still form beneath such a thin layer of mere cotton. Sharpe pulled back the sheet to expose a deathly-white face. The faint woman screamed so highly and loudly as to permanently damage the police officer’s eardrums. Her voice soon broke and she raced out of the room, knocking instruments to the ground in her wake. She ran until her legs burned, and her lungs could no longer take the abuse; only then did she slow to her long gait.

He had been stabbed for his money, which he did not carry much of, by a hungry, ruthless mugger; he had decided to travel through an alleyway, a short cut, so he could reach her house and set up his over romantic proposal, but now it was all gone to waste. Jasmine’s friend, her companion to the end, her one true love, her only happiness, had been murdered, all for a six-pack of beer.

**Author's Note:**

> Original version written 12 years ago for my Creative Writing class. We were going through a period where we tried to copy classic authors writing styles. This author (I forget which one we were doing) required that we write with as much description and as many run-on sentences as we possibly could. A few years later I found I still liked the piece and tried to clean it up into something more readable to the masses - aka, removed redundant/unnecessary description and break up run-on sentences when possible.


End file.
